


Transatlanticism

by TheVineSpeaketh



Series: Feels for a Friend [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bruce Feels, Bruce Has Issues, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, France (Country), M/M, Protective Jarvis, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVineSpeaketh/pseuds/TheVineSpeaketh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Life in France wasn’t bad. He just still hadn’t gotten used to not living in squalor somewhere. "</p><p>Bruce flees from New York after his nerves can't handle the press fallout of being the Hulk. Little does he know that he isn't alone.</p><p>Very late present for NuanceNight's birthday! Happy birthday!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transatlanticism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NuanceNight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuanceNight/gifts).



> This is a birthday present to one of my greatest friends, NuanceNight. Happy (very very late) Birthday, Hawkeye! :D

Bruce woke up to find that his bed was comfortable. He opened his eyes immediately and took a deep breath, returning to life for a moment before closing his eyes slowly and taking a few more deep breaths. Within himself, the equilibrium that had stirred upon waking fell back into a settled rest once more.

He focused on sensations, then, almost waiting for a pair of small, dirty hands to tap at his shoulder and beg him to rise, to follow them, because mama is sick and they lost the goat so they have nothing to eat and she isn't getting better. When nothing happened, and no hands reached for him to pull him gently to his destination, he sat up. 

He didn't have to look to see the clock hanging on the wall, the heavy old wallpaper of some past decade depicting flowers in tight clusters over lacy stripes, the boudoir in the corner shaded from the rest of the world with a small screen made of what he assumed was rice paper. There wasn't a bureau back there—that was by the door—but instead laptops and papers, and things of a scientific nature. He didn’t look around at all of this, though, not bothering to take in his new surroundings as he instead stared down at his hands, ignoring the soft bedspread all around him. 

It had been more than a year since New York: more than a year since he woke up nude in Stark Tower with a blanket thrown over his shoulders and Tony grinning at him from ear to ear telling him they’d won. It had been more than a year since Stark had offered to drive him back to the tower with him once Loki was replaced, and it had been more than a year since he took him up on that offer.

It had been about a year since he’d been at his happiest in a long time, for once not worrying about staying calm, watching Tony flit about his lab and mutter about things like quantum mechanics and thrusters and capacitators with a small smile on his face. It had been about a year since he noticed that Tony’s eyes wrinkled at the edges when he smiled, since he noticed that he spoke to J.A.R.V.I.S. like a close friend, the same way he spoke to Bruce. It had been about a year since he thought maybe he was smiling a little more than usual, and it had been about a year since he walked his tallest, since he tried to turn himself inward to the Big Guy and hold out his hand and make a pact, telling him that they were not enemies, not anymore.

It had been nearly a year since he turned on the television and saw the horrified faces of the people who saw him, nearly a year since he heard the public crying in fear of the green monster still hiding in the tower. Nearly a year since Tony shrugged it off, and nearly a year since Tony’s shrugs became grimaces and his grimaces became snarls as he told him not to listen to them, because they didn’t know, and they had only seen him, but they couldn’t see  _him_. It had been nearly a year since he had tried to go grocery shopping and had been bombarded by a few reporters out of nowhere, since he had to pull up his hood and sprint home, since he had a panic attack and ended up sitting in the lab alone while Tony was at a press conference, J.A.R.V.I.S. muttering soothing things to him as he clutched at the concrete walls in the corner and tried his damndest not to change. It had been nearly a year since J.A.R.V.I.S. couldn’t dissuade him from fleeing, or at least waiting until Tony got home.

Nearly a year ago, Bruce Banner disappeared off the grid again.

Four months ago, he settled in France and took up residence above an old lady who didn’t ask why he paid his rent in cash. He became a mechanic in a workshop owned by a man who laughed a lot and who always invited him out for a drink after work, despite the fact that Bruce always refused. Here, in this life, he was known as Marcel. He fit awkwardly into it—into Marcel—but he was trying. It was nothing like life in South America, or Africa, where he ate his meals with families he helped and where he never left a trail except people who felt better, but he knew that if anybody were to go looking for him, that was the first place they would look.

That, and because when he had first fled, he’d gone to Brazil, and he’d had to evade S.H.I.E.L.D. agents scouting around there for him.

Life in France wasn’t bad. He just still hadn’t gotten used to not living in squalor somewhere.

A soft rapping noise sounded out at his door. That had to be his landlady. She was always kind enough to wake him at a decent hour so he could make it to work on time.

Sighing, he turned, dangling his feet off the edge of his bed. He scrubbed his face with his hands before standing, softly calling, “I’m awake, thank you, mademoiselle.”

He padded to his closet, making quick but gentle work of changing, putting on one of his favorite long-sleeved shirts and a pair of working jeans, throwing a cap on over his unruly curls (which had grown long in his hasty retreat; he hadn’t had the chance to cut them in a while) and tying his shoes. Without a backwards glance into the mirror, he headed downstairs, greeting his landlady for the day and thanking her before taking to the outdoors.

 **(**   **~~~~)**

Every day, before work, he stopped by a coffee shop where his favorite barista—and the only person he could possibly refer to as “friend”—worked. Her name was Lafayette, and she had a calm voice and a happy temperament, perfect for him to deal with in the morning. Every day he’d go there to get some tea, and they talked about anything they really wanted to. Words just flitted between them like placeholders until she got his order ready and sent him on his way, or, if it was a weekend, until he sat down and fell into deep thought. Words didn’t seem like a necessity between them, and he was quite fine with that.

Today, when he came in, she had a large smile on her face. “Marcel,” she said, turning to the hot water machine behind her and preparing a cup. “Chamomile today? It’s a bit chilly outside.”

“Please,” he replied, smiling to himself. He moved up toward the counter, examining the usual decorations, taking notice of the filling tip jar. “Getting a lot of satisfied customers?” he asked, spinning the jar and attempting to guess the amount of coins inside.

“You could say that,” she replied, turning back to him and steeping his tea. “Richard stopped by earlier. His French is still lacking, the poor thing, but he’s so earnest. I’m so excited to visit his parents in the Fall. He said we could definitely stay with his parents.”

Bruce smiled, tapping his fingers gently on the tip jar. Richard was Lafayette’s intended, and he had to admit he followed their romance with keen interest. They both seemed so happy and so willing to try, and with Bruce being who he was, he knew he wouldn’t be able to find something like that, so he couldn’t resist developing an interest and living vicariously through Lafayette. “That’s wonderful news, Lafayette. Congratulations.”

She smiled endearingly, moving the leaves within the drink and stirring it a bit. “Oh! Someone stopped by in here today looking for you,” she said, still smiling gently down at the drink, not noticing how Bruce froze in place or how his hand spasmed on the jar. 

“Did this person leave a name?” he asked, trying to sound conversational, but he was slowly thinking of how he could get back to his apartment without drawing attention to himself and how he could possibly leave quietly. His landlady might not be a problem, but his coworker and Lafayette might be.

She frowned, looking up at him, and he plastered on a smile just in time. “He didn’t, actually,” she replied. “He was dressed to the nines, though, with very expensive sunglasses and a nice suit.”

At once, Bruce was enveloped with both relief and nausea. There was only one person who would come to France looking for him as himself. Only one way to find out for sure, though. “Did he hit on you?”

Lafayette laughed. “Extensively,” she replied, smiling up at him. “Do you know him?”

“Extensively,” he replied, and she laughed. “Do you know where he is now?”

“I think he said he’d be keeping an eye out for you,” she replied. Her gaze glazed over as she looked over his shoulder. “Ah, there he is now!”

He turned slightly, just barely glancing over his shoulder while adjusting his hat, pretending that he was just casually observing things around the shop while secretly looking out the window. From what he could garner from his periphery, it was indeed who he suspected. Nobody else had hair so effortlessly tousled into place, gelled only slightly, and nobody else wore a suit the way he wore wifebeaters and jeans and ACDC t-shirts (comfortably, and in such a way as to draw attention to himself in only the most appealing way). His sunglasses and perpetual straight-face gave him an unaffected, unimpressed look as he surveyed the street. Most people left waiting on the street would be fiddling with their hands or staring into their phones, but Tony stood with his back straight and his chin up, his head turning so he could evenly survey the street.

“You going to talk to him?” Lafayette asked, and Bruce turned to her, noticing the encouraging look in her eye. She wasn’t any fool, and he knew it; she gave him a look that told him she knew exactly how much Tony cared about him, and how much Tony meant to him. He sighed, defeated, and took off his hat, scrubbing his hand through his hair before setting it back down.

“I suppose I must,” he replied, adjusting his jacket subtly and absently checking his pulse. “Save my order for me, Lafayette,” he said, turning toward the door. “I’ll only be a moment.”

“Sure thing,” she replied, but he wasn’t listening anymore. His focus was solely on the man on the other side of the wall of windows. With this small barrier between them, Bruce could almost feel like they were across the world again. He knew, as he stepped closer to the door, that he didn’t have to walk outside. He didn’t have to make himself known and see him, revealing himself and making himself prone to all the things he ran away from. He didn’t have to go back to a life where he might have to crouch in the corner again, sobbing into his hands and checking his pulse and pretending he remembered how to breathe evenly. His lifeline didn’t have to be panic-subduing exercises and the public eye watching him cautiously, afraid to kill him but afraid to let him live. He didn’t have to live with the cloud hanging over him, with the thought of the bullet biting him being a constant presence in his mind but an unattainable reality. Yes, he knew that he didn’t have to live with this. He didn’t have to return to that life.

What carried him to the door was the thought of going back to that life with the man on the other side of the wall, the warmth of his chocolate eyes as he caught a look at him once he got home, the happiness in his voice, despite his weariness, as he stripped out of his suit jacket and complained about stupid corporate people and their vendettas against innovation, about Rhodey generally being a little meddling nuisance, about Pepper giving him hell for some shit he caused with PR. What carried him to the door was the rare hugs that he got when he was growing anxious, the silent moments that started just with an understanding look, the randomly-appearing cups of tea when he was immersed in a book for quite a while.

He stopped in front of the door, just looking at him and thinking. He ran away for a reason, and he hadn’t forgotten it. But just seeing him made it all seem worthwhile.

What stopped him from simply walking outside was what had happened to him before. What finally carried him through the door was Tony.

He walked up next to him, putting his hands in his pockets and looking around. Tony didn’t turn to acknowledge him, but Bruce knew he was aware of his presence.

“Waitress in there is nice,” he said abruptly, and Bruce found himself falling into the familiarity of it immediately.

“She has a boyfriend. They’re going to his parents’ place in England in the fall.”

“Ah. So he’s fucking British.”

“Actually, just English.”

“Same thing.”

“I think it’s sweet. There’s a language barrier, but it works out.”

“Huh. I know the feeling.”

Bruce didn’t miss the subtle jab. He turned slightly, closing his eyes, unable to stop the slight guilt that washed over him. “Listen—”

“I’m not saying that it isn’t understandable,” he continued, not looking directly at Bruce. “Speaking two different languages isn’t something you can blame somebody for. It’s still worth a try to learn a bit of the other’s language. You know, a give for a given. It’s worth trying, isn’t it?” He shifted on his feet, bouncing a bit and giving a careless shrug. “I’m not all for that optimistic crap, but it’s something to think about, I guess. Maybe those crazy kids have it all right.”

Bruce was quiet, not knowing what to say about it. In the end, he settled with going with his first instinct. “You didn’t have to come and get me if it would be too much trouble.”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Tony replied easily, some of the terseness gone. “I thought I’d stop by and find a friend. See how you were doing.”

“I ran. For all intents and purposes, you should be mad.”

“I don’t get angry over stupid stuff, Banner,” he replied. “Besides, I kinda feel like it’s my fault.” He turned to the side, looking at Tony’s eyes, despite being unable to see what his eyes looked like. “I should have learned to speak your language, that’s all.”

Bruce’s heart lurched in Tony’s direction, his expression growing slightly pained. “And maybe I should have learned to speak yours, too.”

“You already knew how,” Tony said quite simply, leaning a little closer to Bruce and lowering his sunglasses, revealing his eyes. There was no hint of anger or disappointment in his gaze, just honesty and a bit of caring. “I just didn’t know how to listen.”

Bruce reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, breathing in and out heavily. “Tony, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Bruce,” Tony said, his hands touching him, supporting him gently without grabbing him. “Bruce, stop, it isn’t your fault. I’m the one who should be saying sorry, I just don’t do this apologizing shit well, and you know it. I should’ve seen the warning signs, I should’ve noticed.”

“Tony, please,” Bruce said, turning and putting his hands on Tony, and that was it, there was no way he wasn’t going back now, not when he’d finally gotten to grasp at him again. “I shouldn’t have just ran. I should have waited. It wasn’t fair to you.”

“It wasn’t fair to expect you to develop a shell hard enough to keep their words out, Bruce, don’t give me leeway on this,” Tony said, and Bruce opened his eyes, looking up at Tony’s from where he was hunched over, surprised to see the glasses gone and a concerned expression replacing his usual aloof persona. Bruce only grew guiltier at the sight of it.

“Don’t try to excuse me either,” Bruce retorted, his grief over causing Tony pain nearly palpable. “You didn’t know where I was, or where I had gone. I have done something terrible to you, and I’m so sorry.”

“Bruce,” he said, his voice more stern and yet slightly quieter, coming off more softly. “I don’t care about that anymore. I took care of it, didn’t I? I found out what I did wrong, I did what I could about it, and I’m here now. I found you.”

“You found me,” Bruce repeated, slightly dazed, and it sent a sensation through him that carried its way right down to his toes. “You searched for me, and you found me.” Tony nodded, not that it needed confirmation, but Bruce didn’t register it. “You still want me, even after I ran away? Even after I didn’t tell you where I was going or what I needed? Even after I just disappeared without a trace?”

“More than anything,” he replied. He shuffled slightly on his feet, his eyes seeking out the ground, not looking Bruce in the eye. “Bruce, I want to fix this. I’m not going to beg, but I’m damn near close to doing it.”

“It wasn’t you,” Bruce said, but Tony was shaking his head. 

“No, I know it was me. I wasn’t paying attention to how you were feeling, and how everything was affecting you. And I’m going to make it up to you.” He moved his hands to Bruce’s face, his thumbs skimming his cheeks, giving a little smile. “Promise. I’ll buy you anything you need to make things more bearable. I’ll do something ridiculous to keep the paparazzi off of you. I’ll abscond with a Russian ballet and then fly back to New York, and we’ll make a day of it while the press is trying to handle my latest stunt.”

Bruce was shaking his head, relief flooding through him, his hands wrapping gently around Tony’s wrists. “I don’t need any of that,” he said. He spent a moment just smiling to himself before looking up, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. “You really mean it?" he asked, nervousness creeping into his tone. "You still want me around, even after this? I," he paused to swallow, "I can’t guarantee I will be there forever. I can’t guarantee it won’t be hard.”

Tony’s smile grew warmer and larger, and Bruce was assaulted with the knowledge that he was definitely going back. “I know,” he replied. “But there’s nobody who can compare to you, Banner. I only want you.” He straightened a bit, dropping one of his hands, though the other was still gently resting on his cheek, a reminder of their attachment. “Face it, Banner,” he said a little less gently, returning slightly to himself, “you’re stuck with me for the rest of the foreseeable future.”

Bruce grinned, closing his eyes and relishing in the feeling of Tony being near him again. How could he have forsaken this? “You know what?” he said, relishing in the feeling of being surrounded by the familiar once more. “I don’t really mind.”

Tony’s answering smile was well worth it. He was going home.

**Author's Note:**

> I will beta it tomorrow. I just wanted her to be able to read it ASAP! It will definitely be edited tomorrow.
> 
> EDIT: Finally edited. XD
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://exacteyewriting.tumblr.com)


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